


Comment Faire?

by Aerosheep



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: For real and ironically, Javert's A+ inspecting, Jealousy, M/M, Madeleine Era, Not a dark fic, Pining, Slow burn baby burn, Valjean really likes Javert's legs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerosheep/pseuds/Aerosheep
Summary: Valjean has a cunning plan: as Mayor Madeleine he schemes to get closer to Javert in order to throw the inspector off the scent of his trail and evade suspicion.  This, of course, backfires wonderfully as Valjean finds himself, despite his better instincts, in the grip of a growing infatuation for the inspector…Warnings: smut, mentions of rape and violence
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	1. Fatal Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing Les Misérables related

Valjean’s current position, lax and slightly reclined in his chair, was a far cry from the flighty and fidgeting creature he had been when the king (the king of France!) had first appointed him Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Although, that wasn't to say he now felt at ease with his position; he could train his body to assume the casual poise of a Mayor, but his mind would never settle. Besides, his labourer's morals would be furious with him if he truly embraced the luxuries of mayorship. 

And so it was that Valjean tried to persuade himself, that the itches of fear wreaking havoc on his nervous system, were really for the best if he wanted to stay alive and out of prison. At present, the inspector Javert, as statuesque, stern and suspecting as he ever was, continued to dictate his mind-numbing police report to the reluctant Mayor. Even worse, the inspector always spoke with such searing clarity and resolution, that surplus concentration was left over for his intense observation of Valjean, who consequently felt hot and clammy, as if under the burning reflection of a magnifying glass. 

Javert’s intense stare made him want to cross his arms tightly over his chest, or move that vase of flowers over from Madame Chevalier, to cover his face, in a futile attempt to stop his brains feel as though they were being ransacked. It was as if he could feel Javert sifting through his thoughts via eye contact, hunting for the damning, incriminating evidence that would fulfil his hunches. No one could accuse the inspector of inattentiveness, so at least, thought Valjean, his town would be well looked after under the eyes of such a hound-like man.

In truth, Valjean couldn’t help but admire the inspector’s thoroughness, such attention to detail was a necessary skill for himself, and sometimes it only made him all the more thankful that he hadn’t been recognised from Toulon. He had taken great pains, however, to transform himself from the wretch that he was, into the well-respected Mayor of M-sur-M. His modest, well-made clothing hid the strength of his muscles and the ugly, ridged whip scars on his back. He had altered his accent and vocabulary to sound more refined, and took care to erase any prison jargon from his speech which would instantly give him away to a former prison guard. 

Most of all, he was sure the inspector would be looking for a brute, a man quick to anger, curse and use his physicality, thus, the greatest mask was his peaceful mien. On a few occasions, it had been hard to suppress the suddeness of passion and anger which breathed into him and demanded action, but he had found that clasping his hands behind his back proved an effective method of grounding his spirits. Gentleness, otherwise, came easily to him, and soon the strength that coiled up in his hands no longer seemed seething to be released, but cooled in his veins as an ever-present and reassuring reserve of his livelihood. His new persona released him from the old chains of desperation and misery, and with each day that passed, Valjean grew more confident that Madeleine was very well the man he could have been in another life.

Valjean wondered that if were it not for the shadowy presence of inspector Javert lurking about town, he might have let himself slide entirely into his new role, although, he doubted the deep and underlying dread in his soul could ever be evacuated for good. Toulon Prison was not an experience easily forgotten, and the fact remained that he had still broken parole, ‘Jean Valjean’ the fugitive was still out there in the eyes of the police, and if it wasn’t Javert, some other eye of the law would be there to snap cuffs on him at the slightest slip up.

Lingering on his thoughts of Javert, Valjean reckoned that the inspector himself was glad to be out of Toulon too. His memory was hazy but not forgetful of the guard Javert had been: straight-backed, unflinching and seemingly indifferent to everything and everyone. And yet his face had always retained a slight but permanent grimace, one that tilted one corner of his mouth down ever so slightly, and tinted his eyes with the tiniest slither of resentment. Whether this was directed at the prisoners or Javert’s own subjection to the grim sights and stenches of prison, Valjean could never quite tell.

Equally, he thought, it may have been partially directed towards his fellow guards, who, on average, were far more raucous, cruel and vulgar than Javert had ever been. No, he thought, remembering in sluggish fragments, Javert had always stood out, ironically for his attempts to not stand out. He had striven to simply fulfil the blueprints of his job, with no indulgent embellishments or added liberties, no matter how easily he could have done so, if the other guards were anything to go by.

Javert’s celibacy in Toulon was superficially debated amongst the prisoners. At times they argued it was due to the young guard's disgust, so strong that the thought of affiliating himself in any base manner with the prisoners would induce sickness in him. A dramatic theory, Valjean reasoned, for working as a guard was surely the least glamorous of law-enforcement jobs. Even if Javert didn’t participate, he was exposed to enough sex, vomit and blood to have developed a strong stomach.

Others suggested that the guard must be too in love with women’s flesh, perhaps he was entirely devoted to a girl at home. But, men’s desires inevitably became blurred in prison; skin was skin when the guards themselves saw little of the world outside. In the majority of instances, guards and prisoners alike fucked for the thrill of domination, glutting themselves on another’s surrender. Rarely was there true desire, and rarer still could there be affection in such conditions.

Tormented, but inevitably engaged by the riddle of Javert’s chastity, some prisoners took it upon themselves to let lust consume them for the passionless guard. Javert’s lack of aggressive or dominant initiative seemed to, by default, place the guard in a submissive role in the fantasies of some prisoners. There was no doubt that a man so uninterested in fucking or fighting (if he were a prisoner himself) would quickly attract swarms of savage men jumping at the bit to break down his barriers, and mark his youthful skin. Now, upon bearing witness to Javert’s metamorphosis into a police inspector, Valjean supposes that Javert was simply keeping his hands and record clean, moving soundlessly through the motions of his job until he was promoted. 

But Javert must have felt the numerous pairs of predatory eyes roaming his body, the dirty taunts that beckoned him jeeringly towards their cells, too pleased with their entertainment to care if Javert might decide to punish them with the lash for their impudence. Soon enough, and he told himself it was purely due to head-splitting boredom, Valjean had found that his very own eyes had strayed to the flesh of the guards. It was irresistible, and nonsensical, for why glance after guards with desire when there were multitudes of prisoners perfectly within reach? Perhaps because anyone who wasn’t a prisoner, who wasn’t coated in shit and grime, would have been a more attractive option.

Upon eventually landing his gaze on Javert, Valjean discovered the true addiction of lust; he could run his eyes up and down Javert’s strikingly long legs and serious features, and garner almost no reaction. It was thrillingly voyeuristic, painful, a self-tease of sorts, like thinking about all the food he could be eating if he was free and had money. It was an effective pastime, hours could slip by thinking about his desires, and hours more were guaranteed by the impossibility of Javert’s reciprocation. 

Valjean came to understand the extent of his fascination one day, when skulking amongst a group of three other prisoners, whose spiteful grumbling Valjean was neither interested in listening to, nor contributing to. That was until they approached the not-uncommon fantasy of a prison riot, and the men took turns, almost politely, in detailing what they’d do in their imaginary riot. 

One was interested in causing as much mayhem as possible, releasing all the most dangerous prisoners from their isolation cells, then finding the guards’ stores of weapons, ammunition and alcohol. Another asserted that he’d make a break for it as quickly as possible, which Valjean quietly agreed with in his head, and run for miles and miles on end, however long it took, until the smells of salty fish and shit were purged from his nostrils. The last was bent on revenge, and took great pleasure in outlining how he would inflict the most gruesome punishments upon each of the guards: whipping them, drowning them, mutilating them, burying them alive, fucking their arseholes raw until they bled out screaming.

The other two soon began to chip in on who would inflict what punishments to which guards, and inevitably, the name Javert cropped up, to which Valjean pricked up his ears just in time to hear the first prisoner of the group, 18593, who was bloated in the eyes and spindly in the limbs, declare that he would shove his cock down Javert’s throat until the guard would gag and vomit up his insides, and then maybe would he stamp on the back of the Javert’s neck and press his face into his own spew, like rubbing a mutt’s nose in its piss. 

Valjean felt blazing anger froth up in his blood, and his teeth grit together ruthlessly to hold back his shouts, although he could not identify precisely why his temper had surfaced with such force. Before he could puzzle any further, the second prisoner, who had darting, alert eyes but stood hunched and broken under the weight of years of labour, piped up to claim that he would tie Javert naked, out in the open yard of the prison, completely at the mercy of anyone who wished to take their revenge and finally hear how he sounded and looked with a cock up his arse. 

Briefly, Valjean pictured himself doing the honours, fancying that his intimidating strength would surely win him first access to the reserved and now helpless guard. Hot arousal shot through him at the thought, quicker than he had time to prepare himself for, and he let himself revel in imagining fucking Javert for all to see. But no, he thought, and was struck in his fantasies by the sudden urge to drag Javert away from prying, hungry eyes, back into his own cell or to a secluded corner. There he would take Javert apart slowly, enjoying the drowsy collapse of his stiff demeanour, until the guard would give in completely and spread his slender, downy legs for Valjean wantonly. 

Valjean shook himself out from his daydream only to be met with an uncomfortably similar desire from the third prisoner, who was broad shouldered and muscled like Valjean, but had been unhesitant to pick fights over the most insignificant affairs. He explained lengthily how he would have Javert as his own personal sex-salve, keep him on a leash and take him with him wherever he went, to be fucked whenever he wanted. 18593 guffawed unpleasantly, upper lip curling grossly and sticking in place, but he only added that the leash should include a muzzle too.

For the rest of that day Valjean had stewed in his lust as the conversation between the prisoners span around and around inside his head. The lust mixed and tangled messily with an unexplainable anger, and cast its shadows over every other thought until he could no longer deny that the feeling was jealousy. Jealousy over a guard, who had not once behaved with the remotest indicators of sexual inclination. Valjean had turned his frustration unto himself almost immediately after his realisation, and had vowed to purge his ridiculous yearnings. 

He had heard and witnessed enough of other prisoners, who had adopted a perverse need and dependence on the guards, to know it never ended well. So Valjean, instead of watching with lust, watched Javert’s supreme indifference with studious intent, and forced himself to become similarly blank and unreachable, until he could find his escape from prison.


	2. Friends Close, Enemies Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean attempts to put Javert off his scent. An old friend saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round Two ding ding ding

It was the end of another long week, and Valjean waited in discomfort for Javert’s succinct knock upon his office door. He had tried ignore his churning stomach, and the pulsing, heavy waves of dizziness that thickened his thoughts to porridge, but nothing would erase his dread of Javert’s impending arrival.

Valjean had hoped that in time he would adjust to Javert, that there would finally be a day when Javert would walk in, and he’d merely see an officer of M-sur-M’s police force instead of a walking reminder of Toulon and his criminal status. Alas, it seemed that it would never be, Valjean supposed that living out the rest of his life in peace as a mayor was too good to be true, too good of a judgment from God for someone like him. 

It had seemed like the cruelest twist of fate on the day when Javert had introduced himself as the new inspector. He remembered the sharp buckling sensation that rattled his knees, and the icy fear that whipped through him, as if Javert had lowered the very temperature of the room. After the initial ghastly shock, Valjean deliberated, and concluded that this was the sacrifice God required of him should he continue to live the blessed life he had laboured for. Considering this, Valjean scooped up one of the rosaries from his desk drawer, and nudged it gently into Javert’s hand. Javert had blinked and looked questioningly at the chain, but curled up his fingers regardless in a sign of acceptance. Valjean’s lungs had loosened and filled with air again. 

Despite Valjean’s quick acceptance of the inspector’s place in his new life, Javert himself only grew more and more distrustful of the mayor. He seemed like a predator with endless patience, waiting on the prey to rear its head before pouncing swiftly to bite its neck. And with that joyful image in his head, Valjean heard a short pair of knocks sound exactly on the hour. In strode Javert, tall and assured of himself, if a little too tense, who bowed briskly before quickly regaining Valjean’s eye contact. 

“Monsieur le Maire.” Was it just his imagination or did Javert place too much emphasis on the ‘Maire’?  
“Inspector.” Valjean felt the crush of claustrophobia return.  
“My report, if you please, Monsieur.”  
“Yes, yes, of course, do go on.” He stammered. 

Valjean attempted a friendly smile but feared it only looked strained. Javert’s eyes briefly scanned across his office before peering relentless into his face as he began his report. Javert’s words and bows conveyed nothing but the utmost respect for his Mayor, but Valjean could see the flicks of scrutiny in Javert’s eyes, and he dreaded the day when those flickers would bloom into satisfied spotlights.

For the next ten minutes, Valjean was held in an awful limbo between utter boredom and paralysing nervousness, he felt desperate enough to make ridiculous excuses such as ‘I’m so terribly sorry Inspector I think I’ve left my fire burning I should really leave right this instant so sorry!’. Anything just to escape from this room. 

“Are you feeling quite well, Monsieur le Maire?” Javert had paused his monotonous report, and was waiting unsympathetically for Valjean’s reply.  
“Euh..yes, yes, I am quite fine Inspector, perhaps a little dizzy but that must only be the humidity, thank you for your concern.” It was a feeble excuse; it was mildly warm in his office at most, and Valjean winced at the thought that his quick-wit might be dulling with age. Javert’s chin raised a fraction,  
“Perhaps Monsieur would find it beneficial to push up his shirt sleeves,” well, that was an audacious ask, and coming from the always-formally-dressed Javert, it could only mean the inspector was seeking out proof of the rough scars on his wrists.  
“It may assist with your hands, Monsieur.”

At that, Valjean glanced downwards and, with muted horror, saw the large blots of perspiration his hands had left upon his wooden desk. Merde, he’d latched onto his desk like an incompetent rider gripping the saddle of a spooked horse. In the back of his mind he faintly wondered if that sweat stain could be easily wiped off.

Quick, he needed some kind of excuse, “Excuse-moi Inspector, perhaps I am coming down with some kind of flu, it may suit you to keep a distance.”  
The inspector wasn’t to be deterred so easily,  
“If you would forgive my asking, Monsieur le Maire, but it appears you are afflicted with some terrible thought, for you wear quite a stricken, fearful expression, such as I have seen on the faces of the guilty.”  
“You are mistaken Inspector, it is merely a small bout of sickness and it will pass, I am certain.”

Valjean nodded, signalling his permission for Javert to take his leave, but Javert stood firm, with a frown threatening to dip his brow, as his impulse to obey his superior wrestled for control. Valjean felt the sparks of annoyance rip past his anxiety,  
“You may leave, Inspector.”

At last, Javert gave a curt nod before exiting the room. By now, Valjean felt sure that the length of Javert’s bow, which had been getting shorter and shorter, was a reliable indicator for his increasing suspicion. Thus, a simple nod in adieu was not a good sign. If he did not act quickly, Javert would act first, and freedom would be a peculiar blip in the narrative of his life.

He considered seriously the idea of running: he would gather together all the respectable fortunes he had made, take it with him, perhaps bury it, and start his life anew elsewhere. The idea settled heavily in his stomach however, and there was a surge of throbbing through his bones, as if his body was protesting the idea of running again so soon after settling. He had responsibilities now too, he remembered, more beds for the hospital, more teachers for the schools, unfinished renovations in his factory… he could not simply vanish.

No, he needed to deal with Javert directly, to ease his suspicion and regain his trust.  
A vague plan bubbled to the surface of his mind. 

Javert was looking for the prisoner who had broken parole, a man who would flinch and bare his teeth in the face of the law, a man who would let the fear of discovery cloud his face like a branding of its own. The inspector was hunting for his fellow animal. 

Well, he would not find one here. He would be the opposite of what Javert was looking for, and if that meant getting closer just to push him away, Valjean would do just that. 

…

The next week at the same time, Valjean leant against his door with his ear pressed against the wood, lying in wait, the predator once more. He heard the approach of Javert’s even footsteps, and swung open the door with a welcoming smile, his arms coming out to usher Javert inside. Javert stood looking blindedly perplexed, his hand still raised and about to knock. 

Valjean made to remove the inspector’s large coat, drifting behind and reaching up to Javert’s shoulders, but Javert scooted forward out of his reach like a skittish bird, and murmured a hurried ‘no, thank you’, before drawing his coat around him tighter. Before Javert could dutifully begin his report, Valjean leapt in with a loud, affable voice,

“You must forgive me for these past few weeks Inspector, I have not been good company at all, I’m afraid I had underestimated my illness as of late, and as of such, the very same day after your last report, I fainted in my own home if you can believe it!”  
Javert narrowed his eyes. Valjean continued his performance,  
“Yes, it was by pure luck that my housemaid came back and found me passed out right on my floor, she was kind enough to call the doctor for me, who knows otherwise if I would have stayed that way all night..”  
Javert played along, “I hope Monsieur is feeling better then, it certainly looks as though you have regained your spirits.”  
“Indeed, the doctor convinced me to have some blood let, and I do now feel as though my usual good temperament has been returned to me.”  
Javert’s nostrils flared as though scenting for Valjean’s sweaty palms, but remained silent, unable to call the mayor a liar to his face.

“I think I will hear your report now, Inspector.”

…

Towards the end of his report, Javert listed off a couple of minor investigative points that he had yet to look into, including a received concern from one Monsieur Ferré, about a possible planned robbery of the man’s prodigious riches. Valjean let a frown cloud his attentive expression. 

Monsieur Ferré was an elderly gentleman who had the misfortune to be both without living relatives (his wife had passed away some ten years prior, and the couple had had no heirs) as well as sporting a failing, faulty memory. A couple of months after first arriving in Montreuil-sur-Mer, before he had been appointed Mayor, Valjean had warded off a horde of teenage pick-pockets, who had cruelly pushed the old man to the ground. He had bribed the boys away with his own money, all he had made for that week, and helped the poor man to his feet. 

Valjean had expected to only be briefly thanked, but the man had blinked with astonishment and recognition upon seeing his saviour.  
“You!” He had gasped, “we have met before!”  
“I am afraid you must be mistaken, Monsieur, for I do not recognise you, my name is Madeleine.”  
“Yes, my good friend! It is Madeleine of course! How have you been?”  
Valjean was wondering if the old man had taken a rougher fall than he’d initially thought, and started to guide him towards the hospital, but the old man continued somewhat elatedly.  
“Mon Dieu, it has been so many years, do tell me how life in Marseille has been treating you my dear friend, I would be most glad for your company.”

Valjean had awkwardly dodged the man’s questioning, whilst not wanting to correct his mistake, as more confusion would not have done the man’s health any good until he could be at rest in the hospital. 

The next day, Valjean had sought out Monsieur Ferré in hospital, only to discover that the man’s delusions of their friendship persisted. He came back the next day, and the next, and the next, until a whole week had drifted by with no change. Valjean normally saved his generosity for the poor and wretched, but his heartstrings had tugged so achingly at the old man’s loneliness, that he couldn’t bear to correct Monsieur Ferré’s mistake. That, and he saw an unsettling vision of what his own future might be, reflected in Monsieur Ferré: old, wealthy, and alone.

This patten continued until Ferré, now restored to vitality, invited Valjean to sup with him, and Valjean, too embarrassed that he’d allowed his untruth to continue for so long, accepted the offer sheepishly. His guilt, however, was soon mostly swept aside by the birth of a genuine friendship, for Ferré continued to invite Valjean to supper on the first of every month for a generous meal in his grandiose -if rather sterile- house. 

With the single exception of Ferré, Valjean had made a conscious effort not to socialise with anyone, and had become renowned amongst his citizens for being reclusive. Although the people (minus Javert), generally and affectionally dismissed this as a simple quirk, for they were more in awe of their new Mayor’s selfless generosity, and unprecedented accomplishments in Montreuil-sur-Mer. 

Brought to concern for his old friend by Javert’s report, Valjean went to check on Monsieur Ferré himself the following morning.

However, as he began to knock upon the wide, oaken door, he heard a familiar set of footsteps approach him from behind. He exhaled like the halting of a tired steam-train, before pursing his lips to contain an unruly curse. The Inspector had a unique sense of timing that was for sure.

“Monsieur le Maire, I did not expect to find you here.”  
Javert’s tone was clipped and irritable. Valjean forced himself to smile widely,  
“You mentioned in your report about Monsieur Ferré’s concerns, I merely wanted to check myself, I certainly didn’t mean to intrude upon your work Inspector, do forgive me.”  
Valjean was starting to grow tired of having to hand out endless apologies, nearly as much as Javert seemed tired of hearing them.  
“It is no trouble.”

Monsieur Ferré answered the door with amicable relief to see Javert, and joyful surprise for Madeleine, and he pushed them both inside his house with the airs of a corpulent farmer’s wife. 

The inspector did not hesitate before launching into his questioning, prodding Ferré carefully for specific details and jotting them down in some rapid short-hand whilst barely glancing at his notepad. With nothing else to do, Valjean tacked his focus onto Javert’s face, which had all the vigilance and winks of intelligence which Valjean had seen directed at himself, but without the cagey hostility. 

His stern features settled handsomely under a neutral focus when they weren't threatening to twist into an ugly snarl. It suited him becomingly, Valjean admitted to himself.

“Monsieur Ferré, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how did yourself and Monsieur le Maire become acquainted?”

Valjean’s stomach clenched horribly, but before he could say a word, Ferré jumped in enthusiastically and began telling a terribly long-winded and vague history of how they had met, some details of which Valjean had heard Ferré declare before, and most of which seemed to come out on the spot. Ferré even sighted their first meeting as when Madeleine had saved him from pickpockets, which was not false, if placed some good few years too early in history. 

Even better than the half-truth, though, was that Ferré’s retelling asserted Valjean as a free man during times at which he were unmistakably still imprisoned. He watched with bristling glee as Javert’s anticipation melted into muffled disappointment.

It was almost comical to see Javert subjected to Ferré’s tireless waffling and his winding, almost nonsensical anecdotes. He excused himself abruptly, promising to look into Ferré’s case, and that the man should have nothing to worry about in the hands of the police. Valjean watched the inspector go with the distinct feeling of victory, and turned to Monsieur Ferré with a fond smile, for the genial old man had unwittingly saved his backside.


	3. A Slap In The Face (will not mend disgrace)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how it is

Now given a head-start by Monsieur Ferré, Valjean diligently pursued Javert’s trust, like an elephant seeking out a rare, visage-like watering-hole. Despite Valjean’s consistent efforts, Javert could not repress his uneasy surprise each time he received such kind attentions from the Mayor. The inspector’s reactions were mixed, swinging from concealed malevolence to clueless embarrassment. He was like an unfriendly dog, huffing at its owner who was giving it new commands for tricks which it had never learnt as a puppy. 

The steadiest stream of Javert’s hostility came to a staggering halt, however, on one particularly, stiflingly hot day. Javert came in briskly after two quick knocks, strode to the front of Madeleine’s desk and whipped his hat off submissively. The man looked to be wearing a normal expression, and Valjean might have thought nothing were amiss, were it not for the Inspector’s hands, which were clenching and unclenching in unrhythmical spasms, as if he kept wanting to drop his hat but changed his mind each time.

“Inspector? Is something the matter?”  
A pause too long.  
“Yes, Monsieur le Maire,”  
Valjean felt his feet itch,  
“I have disgraced you, Monsieur, and the uniform that I wear.”

Valjean squinted, perplexed, but Javert did not need further prompting.

“I had recently sent a statement to the head of the Paris Police, accusing you of being the fugitive convict Jean Valjean. I received their rejection of my claim this morning, highlighting that I had no evidence to speak of, and sending me in return the surplus evidence of your honour and enviable virtue. I realise only now, the temerity of my actions.”  
Valjean could not speak. Javert tried very hard not to shift where he stood.  
“What I have done is unforgivable, Monsieur. I await your dismissal.”

Valjean felt as if a tornado had brewed inside his head and swept all his thoughts into a jumbled heap. He had barely managed to suppress the effects of his adrenaline, spiked into action by Javert’s accusation to Paris, before being slapped in the face by the wet fish that was the Inspector’s shame. Even now, still awaiting the mayor’s response, Javert’s face was masterfully schooled in calm resignation, only his hands and words gave away his turmoil. 

Just as his inner cries of jubilation were staring to flood his senses, Valjean was struck by Javert’s humility. He was certain that the Inspector had no real necessity to share his failings, indeed, others in his place might have called it idiotic. The man evidently had no self-preservation, or if he did it gave way entirely to his reverence of the law, which he had shown to cast upon himself with the conviction of a high-court judge. 

But Valjean held his own convictions too: that the law was too black and white for a world so full of different shades and colours. Would he abandon his own code of mercy now?

“Nonsense, Inspector, you shall not be dismissed, you may return to your post.”  
He ducked his head down to look at his paperwork, even though the words had turned blurry, and he could just feel a protest bubbling inside Javert.

“But, Monsieur le Maire I—”  
“You are forgiven.”  
“Impossible, I have offended your good name.”  
“You were merely doing your duty.”

Javert looked at him like he’d said the sky was green.  
“My duty was to you, Monsieur, not against you.”  
“And it is your duty still. It was an honest mistake, and I will hear no more of this quibbling Inspector, I await your next report as-per-usual.”

And with that the Inspector bowed low and slow before slinking out of the room, seeming more guilty than when he had come in.

Perhaps it was Valjean himself who was idiotic after all; he had let (or forced it seems) his tormenter go unscathed save for his pride. A wounded pride, however, could be as good a retribution as any, to men like Javert. Today would not be the day that Valjean stopped trekking the long path towards Javert’s trust, but, the road may have gotten just a little less slippy. 

…

Weeks passed by, and Javert’s eyes no longer trailed searchingly across each corner of the room and through his skull. Instead, they froze blankly each time Madeleine caught his gaze genially, before darting down towards his feet to break the contact. It no longer felt like a strange hybrid of a staring contest and a Mexican standoff, as it had once done, and Valjean enjoyed his new freedom of his own unguarded observation. 

Even if Javert caught him staring, he would consistently turn the other way, almost teasingly. 

It made something pulse in Valjean’s memory, like an un-born chick nudging at its shell to break out. Valjean swallowed it down like vomit. 

Cleared of suspicion, Javert’s face seemed naked and strange. During his reports, the veil of focus that Valjean had witnessed with Monsieur Ferré, would sometimes return on Javert’s profile, especially when there had been a more intriguing, tricky or hazardous case, and Javert would weave fiddly bits of detail into a coherent narration which even Valjean found engrossing at times. 

A stubborn frown hardly ever left the inspector’s visage, it was deep and serious, like his eyebrows wanted to conjoin into one hairy, black bar before lowering down almost to eye level. it would be a perfect frown to paint, thought Valjean, it was convincing in its sincerity, and precise in the acute concentration it signified. It brought on curious urges to surprise the Inspector, to see those eyebrows spring apart and leave round, spooked eyes unprotected in their wake.

There seemed like a perfect opportunity to do just that one early morning, as Valjean saw Javert crouched on the floor by a wall. He saw the back of the inspector hunched and still, and he looked to be taking measurements of a small, squarish hole in the wall. Valjean trod very silently in the Inspector’s blind spot, before tapping him firmly on the shoulder. Javert’s head whipped around instantly, and for a nano second, Valjean thought he saw his eyebrows stutter upwards in shock.

That impressive brow, however, intimidating to the innocent and guilty alike, was also a mask that blocked out intrigued observers like Valjean, by smothering any other emotion that attempted to break out across Javert’s face, and it quickly snapped back into position after its brief dislodgement.

More indicative of his emotion, and less yielding to his control, was Javert’s body language. His shoulders would twitch in irritation when the Mayor suggested something he considered too fanciful, there would be a minute shifting of his feet when the Inspector was tired or in physical discomfort, and the flexing of his hands would grow fidgety and jerky when he felt internally troubled. 

Unfortunately for Valjean, he had yet to note that surprise had been religiously trained via the police, to produce a reflexive defence, and he barley saw a blur of blue sleeve and black leather before the inspector had sprung up and socked him in the jaw. One muscular arm that flung out behind him managed just in time to keep Valjean from falling flat on his behind. 

As instinctively as Javert had struck, the Inspector blanched and stooped down clumsily to scoop an arm behind the Mayor’s back, and carefully help him upright again. Valjean was too dazed and somewhat amused by the backfiring of his plan, to pay much attention to Javert’s gushing stream of shame-faced apologies, but his vision became just clear enough to catch a twisting of anxiety distort the Inspector’s strict features. He’d not come out completely empty-handed then, Valjean rejoiced quietly.

Valjean glanced down at Javert’s hands and smirked at the predictable sight of twiddling fingers, except, those fingers were now gradually advancing towards his face, like a shy, modest child reaching for an offered cookie. Even with foresight he couldn’t suppress his own surprise when those fingers skimmed across his jaw in the place where no doubt a blotchy bruise would be forming, and winced slightly when they prodded into the tender skin. 

Even encased in dirtied leather gloves, Javert’s touch was gentle, almost ticklish, and Valjean realised that whilst he had taken much initiative to place his hands across Javert’s back, arms and shoulders in friendly greeting, the taller man had never reciprocated these touches. 

He felt a whirling of heat pace restlessly underneath his skin. The man’s face had gotten awfully close too, when had that happened? He smelt like clay, paperwork, and metal, or was that blood? Valjean inhaled roughly.

Javert snatched his fingers back before Valjean could breath him in again, and lowered his eyes to the floor. Valjean brought his own hand to his jaw, it was definitely sore, but not broken, thank god. He wondered how he would go about explaining this bruise to people, he surely couldn’t say that his own head of police had punched him in the face. 

“Well, Inspector, at least we know you can take care of yourself.”  
Valjean had tried to sound light-hearted, but Javert just grimaced,  
“I will pay for a doctor, Monsieur, I insist.”  
“Oh no, that is quite unnecessary; nothing is broken—”  
“I really must insist, Monsieur, it is my thoughtless behaviour at fault.”

Javert sounded too urgent for Valjean to muster up the energy to argue.  
“Well, ok then, a quick look wouldn’t hurt.”  
The inspector seemed temporarily placated, and Valjean decided he would take this moment to enjoy the feeling of javert’s tentative hands guiding him towards the hospital.

…

Lying in his bed later that evening, Valjean replayed over and over his interaction with Javert, and each time he would pause lengthily at the moment when Javert’s fingers came fleetingly to touch at his jaw, and his face had loomed closer until the minute details of his skin became observable. Was he remembering incorrectly, or had there been a faint scattering of dark freckles across his nose? And was that a bruise of his own which peeked under the Inspector’s lofty strands of fringe, or just an unfortunate smudge of dirt?

It made him want to grab the man’s head between his own two hands, and hold him still whilst his eyes roamed freely across every square inch of his face. 

He reckoned he might receive another blow to the face if he attempted that.

Sooner than he had expected, Valjean became aware that his fearful reactions of Javert had melted away entirely, to be replaced by a rumbling fascination. He huffed a little at the irony, for it had been his intention to discourage Javert’s negative judgments, not diminish his own. 

All this ruminating upon Javert inevitably dug up old memories: for the first time in years, as he lay in the solitude of his bedroom, Valjean actively thought about the prison guards of Toulon, and one very familiar guard in particular, who had been no stranger to Valjean’s mind (and lower anatomy) on previously dark and sleepless nights.

Stifled, dusty desire, squished down beneath a hundred layers of trepidation and resentment, began to hatch in the depths of his old self, and crawl out into the spring-time of Madeleine.


	4. Yay or Neigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the debut of Gymont in this fic pls enjoy

Valjean dragged himself from sleep with the ease of a stuck horse scrabbling from a tar pit. Vague dream-memories of sweat, skin and the smell of clay clung to him as he blinked out the sleep from his eyes. Unthinkingly, he rubbed one hand over his face and cringed to feel the area over his jaw ache with increased tenderness, there would also be the added embarrassment of explaining his injury as the result of knocking his chin against his table. It was a flimsy excuse but he was sure his awkward public persona would render it rather convincing. 

Peering critically into the mirror of his washroom, Valjean found it hard to stop looking at the darkening bruise marring his skin. He applied some healing ointment on the area, which made it shine and glisten like it was coated in spit. A sudden image of Javert mouthing and keenly licking his jaw flashed intrusively into his mind. Valjean bit his lower lip and ran a thumb back and forth over the mark in skating circles. 

He tried pinching the skin between the two blunt nails of his thumb and forefinger, and bit harder into his lip as a tingle of something Valjean could not name, shimmied through his nerves. He grabbed the sink with both hands and frowned at his reflection, not yet ready to question why he had further agitated his injury. 

The ghost-like sensation of Javert’s curious mouth lingered, however, and left his jaw feeling slick, even as the ointment dried away.

On his way to his factory, Valjean strode past the very place where he had received his injury, and saw that the Inspector was once again, crouched by the hole in the wall. Having learnt his lesson, Valjean approached with heavy footsteps and cleared his throat for added measure, and this time Javert remained crouched on the ground as he glanced up to see the Mayor.

That infamous frown deepened with guilt upon the sight of Valjean’s bruise. Valjean smiled and shrugged nonplussed,  
“I barely feel it,” he lied.  
Javert nodded slowly, but without conviction. 

Valjean noted that the Inspector was waiting for him to say something else,  
“What’s the significance of this gap in the wall?”  
“It is of a curious size, and seems unnatural - someone has chipped away at the wall themselves to form it.”  
Valjean said no more, catching onto Javert’s desire not to speak of ongoing investigation whilst in public.

As Javert rose to his feet, they both realised how closely they were stood together, and each took a hasty step backwards. Valjean shooed away his disappointment at no longer seeing Javert on his knees. 

“Are you certain you are not hurt, Monsieur, you do look quite dazed if you don’t mind my saying?”  
“A headache perhaps, but it is truly nothing I assure you, there is no need for concern.”

Why had he said that? He truly would self-induce a headache if he kept acting so foolishly.

“Adieu, Inspector.”  
“Adieu, Monsieur le Maire.”

Valjean hurried away with a quickened pace, not wanting to be late. 

…

The afternoon was muggy, and inside the factory the air only grew hotter, chokingly thick. Decision made, he swept downstairs and announced authoritatively that the factory was closed, and ordered his workers to go home for the day.

The women, some barely out of girlhood, balked for a few stagnant seconds, before there was a scrambling rush of bodies pouring out into the daylight, murmuring prayer-like thanks or pressing Madeleine's hands reverently between their own as they scurried away.

After the greater mass had flooded out, Valjean saw a fair handful of women still paused reluctantly at their stations. He did not have to guess as to why they remained rooted despite the sweat that dripped down from under their work caps. He plunged one hand into his trouser pocket and fished out his purse, then went round to the women in turn, pressing a day’s wages’ worth of coins into their palms, silently begging them not to spill the news of his generosity to the other workers who had already left. 

The girls’ eyes were wide and disbelieving, revealing their inexperience of receiving such unprovoked liberality.

He too, followed the women outdoors, hunting down any stray breeze that would wriggle between the folds of his clothes and cool his melting skin.

Walking down the cobbled paths of Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean heard the tell-tale clip-clopping of hooves, and discreetly slunk into the shadows away from the centre of the street, and pressed up against the shop fronts. 

A fear of horses was perfectly reasonable, Valjean though defensively, knowing that many people would scoff and call his behaviour silly and irrational. They were enormous beasts, too big really, he hated the way they would froth and pull at their bits as though rabid, or when they scraped one of their over-sized hooves to paw at the ground impatiently, like a furious bull ready to brain anyone obstructing its path. He didn’t care if they were supposedly vegetarian; horses’ mouths were too big and too full of chunky, rotten teeth, and some people had the guts to hold their hands out amicably for a horse to eat from their palms. No thanks. 

Valjean had seen a man once, crushed under the unforgiving hooves of such a beast. The poor man had tripped and alarmed a bulky cart horse, so that it reared up hysterically before crashing down violently upon the helpless body with a sickening force. 

And so the mayor of M-sur-M lurked behind a barrel, waiting for a single horse to pass by.

The horse finally emerged around the corner and into view. Even with clammy palms Valjean could admit that the horse was a beautiful creature; its coat was of a rich, magnetic, ebony colour, silky and sleek, as if it repelled the very dust which wafted through the air in loose puffs. It’s muzzle was broad and velvety with nostrils lively flaring, and in perfect proportion to the great head which bobbed up and down with the sturdy rhythm of its gait. 

Heads in the street turned to watch the beast walk by; a horse that magnificent could not be a common cart horse. 

And indeed it wasn’t, as Valjean soon found upon studying its rider. There, his very own police Inspector sat perched upon the mighty creature, as upright and alert as he ever was, but with a certain looseness in the hips that could only come from a profound confidence, experience and pleasure in riding. 

Javert had the horse walking slowly forward, allowing enough time to proficiently sweep the streets with his gaze, until he brought the horse to a sudden halt next to an elderly gentleman ambling down the road in the opposite direction. Javert bent over at the waist rather precariously, to catch the man’s attention, who looked up startled as if he hadn’t noticed the huge, black, living creature towering beside him. 

The man, Valjean realised it was Monsieur Ferré, was both short in stature and of poor hearing, and he gestured helplessly at Javert, who was tilting even further to one side out of his saddle to speak. Then, placing the reigns into one hand, Javert gracefully swung his right leg over the behind of the horse (an applaudable feat given the incredible length of the man’s legs), and hopped off to land effortlessly on the ground.

Javert firmly held the reigns of the shifting horse, whilst he and Monsieur Ferré engaged in discussion. From his distance, Valjean couldn’t make out their words, so he entertained himself by tracing with his eyes the stretch of Javert’s legs instead, which were bared to his scrutiny due to the absence of the Inspector’s usual woollen coat in the hot weather.

Javert’s legs must be sticky like his were, he thought, although until now, he had fancifully imagined that the man was immune to heat. How hot would it have to be for him to take off the second layer of a waistcoat? Unbearably hot, probably. Javert would sooner let his shirt become plastered to him like a soaked wash-cloth, than undo more than his coat buttons.

Valjean caught and reprimanded himself before he imagined Javert with any more layers removed. He had worked bloody hard to transform himself from a convict into respectable citizen; such uncouth thoughts should not make his stomach quiver so pleasingly. 

Conversation complete, Javert stuck one foot back in a stirrup, and hoisted himself up into the saddle once more. This time Valjean waited expectantly for the other leg to swing back around, and marvelled again at how his boot did not kick the horse in the rear. Javert kicked on, and Valjean was suddenly aware of his embarrassing hiding place. Moving just in front of the barrel (he would not go nearer to that horse, not even for a closer look of the Inspector’s legs), Javert noticed him and doffed his hat respectfully, but didn’t pause, and continued towards the end of the street.

Valjean watched him go with the vague feeling of someone stealing the last piece of bread. He appeased himself with staring at Javert’s legs from behind, which wrapped around the animal’s body in a secure embrace. He surely must have well-muscled legs, with firm thighs and toned calves, perhaps littered with scratches and bruises of his own from police work. He felt mildly miffed that the back ridge of the saddle blocked his view of the muscle residing tantilisingly just above his thighs. 

Remembering the hobbling old man who still had not reached the end of the street, Valjean turned from his confusing desires and hurried down after Monsieur Ferré. 

“Monsieur”  
“…”  
“Monsieur!”  
“…”  
“Monsieur!!”  
“Ah! Madeleine! It is you! I had thought I was being chased by some wild youth, and so I thought ‘Golly, I had better keep my head down this time and keep walking!’”  
“Oh, I am most sorry to have alarmed you.”  
“No, no, not at all my dear friend, indeed I have some wonderful news which I should wish for you to hear!”  
“Oh, yes?”  
“Yes! Some frightfully tall and intimidating-looking man came to inform me that—”  
“—do you mean…Inspector Javert?”  
“Yes, yes, an officer of the law certainly, you can just tell by the hawkish look in their eyes! Yes, he came to inform me that I need not fear a robbery any longer, the police have caught the perpetrators!”  
“Wonderful news, Monsieur!”  
“Awfully Wonderful!”

The old man’s youthful gaiety was catching, and Valjean found himself absorbed in rare cheerfulness.  
“But, how did they catch the thieves, pray tell?”  
“There have been men placed undercover these past few nights, near the rear entrance of my house, where in the back wall of my garden there is a small opening big enough for a person to fit through…”

Of course! He had known that that wall barred off Monsieur Ferré’s property, and yet how had he not pieced together this information with Ferré’s claims of seeing human shadows moving about in his garden?

“And then?”  
“And then the officers waited until the men, two them, were midway through picking the lock of my door—”  
“The devils!”  
“—Before springing forth from the bushes and arresting them!”  
“…”  
“…”  
“Perhaps, if I may suggest to you, my friend, that you keep your valuables hidden within the main body of your house, and away from the windowsills, where they will surely tempt more men to try their luck at theft.”  
“You are quite right as always, my dear, wise friend, I think I shall do just that!”

"Oh! and Madeleine?"  
"Yes?"  
"What happened to your face!?"  
"Ah, I knocked my chin on my table."  
"Oh! How very like you!"


	5. One Step Forward...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *accidentally lets angst out of its cage*

Valjean thought of those thieves in the night, sneaking around like foxes in Monsieur Ferré’s garden, the glint of the old man’s expensive vases and silver ornaments glittering like stars from behind the windows. The mens’ eyes would have widened with the glee of cats descending upon spilt milk.

What had they felt in that moment? 

An electric jolt of hope, a blazing light which could be traded for money to bring back to life their ailing, sobbing children? A low, scrunching ache in the stomach - a way to feed the scavenging rats which seemed to live inside your belly and ate and ate away at your reserves, until all you felt was nothing but hunger? Or was it a heady, alcoholic buzz, fuel for the sinful greed which made men delight in simply having something shiny to preen over like a magpie?

Valjean was unfamiliar with the last. 

He hoped it was the last which inspired the men to rob Monsieur Ferré. 

They had picked a rich man’s lock: calculated, resourceful, precise. Valjean had smashed a baker’s window.

And yet to think of that fateful moment: the frigid, iron handcuffs sealing with an awful click around the wrists, as damningly as the slam of the jail door. His stomach couldn’t help but roll in empathy.

Who was he, sharing smiles with the rich over the condemnation of commoners? Who was he but a thief, stealing the trust of the rich and poor alike in ‘his’ town of M-sur-M. He felt distinctly out out-of-body, as though he were some stranger leafing through an illustrated story-strip of his life. He felt like a judge, a witness, a victim, a cop…

He kicked away the blankets from his body; these were not wise thoughts for the first few seconds of wakefulness. 

Rising from bed, Valjean’s head throbbed, sending sheets of dizzy stars shooting across his vision, and his knees wobbled like a foal’s before he plonked back down on his bed unceremoniously.

And now his knees hurt. 

Valjean sighed, he didn’t loath the prospect of ageing like some did, not really, he was still stronger than most men, and a few creaky joints here and there could not temper his will. 

He looked around his empty room, shoulders sagging. What would break him in the end, he guessed, was probably loneliness. Every day that he grew older was another step towards a solitary death, for how could he ever trick another human being into sharing their own precious days with a convict? He rose again from bed, full of melancholy and acquiescence.

The end of another week could only mean another report from the Inspector, whose sharply outlined figure and firm grip on his foreboding cudgel, made Valjean flinch again for the first time in weeks.

Hearing Javert speak, Valjean’s head span in circles even though his previous head pain had ebbed away. Javert’s voice had become cosily familiar: it was low, cool and rough, but huskily so rather than scratchy, and his tone was smooth like the slide of crème caramel (which he was sure the man had never gotten to try) down your tongue, but, it thankfully lacked the grating nasal inflections with which so many voices were afflicted.

Crawling alongside Javert’s voice, however, was the eerie phantom sensation of handcuffs encircling his wrists, and prison grit itching between his toes and underneath his fingernails. It was a disorientating combination: a reverse feeling of that initial arrest, when his mind, so used to freedom, stumbled to catch up with its imprisoned reality. 

It was surely confusing his senses, this new nearness to Javert.

Perhaps he had done all he had needed to do to secure Madeleine from police suspicion, and now he was safe to retreat, and reinsert the distance between himself and the Inspector.

…

More weeks tottered by, and Valjean withheld his smiles and gentle touches from the tall Inspector, chiding his often wandering eyes for not complying to his new objective. 

Valjean observed, with odd lumps in his throat, that the Inspector too, avoided him like dog shit, whilst his face became an even blanker slate than he’d ever seen it before. He forced himself to feel relieved.

There was the matter of the reports, of course, which continued, but with increasing formality and stiffness from Javert, who took care to shorten his accounts, removing all mildly indulgent details, as if he’d rather be anywhere else but in the room with Madeleine. Valjean grew wooden too, listening just for the sake of duty and habit, offering none of the inquisitive ‘mmm’s or engaged raised eyebrows as he had used to. 

The two of them were like faceless dolls. Barely speaking, unnaturally still. Simply occupying space in Madeleine’s office, as though a young girl had placed them there in her dolls’ house, but had not taken the care to unbend their rigid limbs. 

The blistering Summer heat had been snuffed out into a crisp, breezy Autumn, and now, as Valjean peered out of his modest square window, he saw that frost was beginning to hug the burnt-coloured leaves still decorating the trees, and crept around the edges of the window’s glass.

It was an uneventful Thursday, and Valjean was content just to waft down the streets of M-sur-M, nodding at his citizens who nodded back sincerely, sometimes softly pressing loose change into the hands of small children with their hands cupped imploringly.

All of a sudden, as the he was rounding a sharp corner, a dark figure swooped around in the opposite direction, and collided straight into the Mayor. Valjean quietly thanked the bulk of his own frame for keeping him rooted in place, otherwise he was sure that the swift pace of the other man would have barrelled him over completely.

He startled and looked up.

It was Javert. 

Seeing Javert’s face up close again, the smell of clay, metal and now horse drifting over from his uniform, Valjean felt slammed to the floor with guilt.

But he had no reason to feel guilty, did he? Him and the Inspector, it’s not as if they were friends, far from it. He could not imagine that Javert had begun to think of their brief amicability as friendship. 

They stumbled apart. Valjean gave a formal nod to the Inspector, expecting one back, as was the extent of their communication these days. But, Javert did not do so, instead his hands lifted and fell in odd little patterns like he was painting, and his hard-pressed mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

Recognising his plight, Valjean tried an awkward smile. With one side of the mouth. No teeth.

It worked.

“Monsieur le Maire”, Javert’s voice was strained.  
“Inspector Javert.”  
“…”  
“…”  
“You make your presence from me quite...scarce.”

Wonderful, Valjean thought, with the pinches of a returning headache, the man was growing suspicious again. This was precisely why he had formed a plan to get closer to the Inspector. Why had he abandoned his aim so soon? Valjean couldn’t remember, he had been foolish, it was like taking one step forward and then two steps backwards. 

Valjean floundered for an excuse, surely he could not say that it was due to illness again, the Inspector would never believe him. 

Javert beat him to the post.  
“I have offended you, again, Monsieur le Maire—”  
Oh  
“—only...I have been trying to understand what it is that I have done, and, forgive me most sincerely, but I cannot identify the problem.”

Valjean saw that Javert’s hands were callously wringing themselves into twisted knots, like an old maid would with drenched bed sheets.

“If perhaps you could inform me of the trouble, Monsieur le Maire, I would most gladly work with diligence to amend my behaviour.”

If Valjean had doubted his cause for guilt a few minutes ago, he very much felt justified to chastise himself now, the inspector was practically self-flagellating due to Valjean’s volatile swings in temperament. And yet, again, he came up empty handed for a reply.

“I’ve been having awful migraines.”

Dear god. 

“I mean, what I mean to say is.... is that you have done nothing wrong Inspector, nothing at all I assure you!”  
Javert did not look convinced.  
“No, no, you mustn’t blame yourself, I have had no qualms with your conduct. Please, you must see what awful good you have done in this town, and if anything, I should congratulate your accomplishments…euh…well done!”

It was no lie; Valjean could supply all the alms in the world upon his citizens, but there would always be those who would break the law just for pleasure or out of spite. Since the new Inspector had arrived in M-sur-M, his people had a police force that could offer effective protection and deterrent too. 

“But, Monsieur le Maire, surely you must have some critique?”

Well, why waste a good opportunity? And if the man was truly desperate for feedback…

“Perhaps there is something…”  
Javert’s chest straightened further and tilted forward slightly. Valjean thought upon a young, dirty, begging boy he had encountered with his arms stretched out, crouched amongst the muck of the streets.  
“Children who are arrested for theft and petty crime,”  
“Monsieur,”  
“Need they be shown so little mercy, Inspector?”  
“Mercy, Monsieur, does not erase a crime.”  
“But surely the poor girls and boys’s reasons can be given a fair hearing, they commit their ‘crimes’ out of desperation, it is that or they must resign themselves to death.”

Javert’s shoulders twitched and his frown darkened, but it wasn’t anger, Valjean noted. It was incertitude, Valjean’s request very obviously held friction with the Inspector’s ideology. He was left in suspense, unable to guess, at how Javert would react.

“I will review the procedures for child arrests, Monsieur le Maire, if that would please you.”  
“It would.”  
Javert nodded, and Valjean let genuine happiness mould his face into an easy smile.


	6. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme (except it's just Rosemary oops)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to BBC's 'A Perfect Planet' soundtrack whilst writing this and it was weird as hell :/

The next day, Madeleine returned to the street where he had seen the boy with the outstretched hands. He found the young lad in the exact same place, in the exact same hunched position, his bare, bony knees poking upwards through holes in his trouser legs. He was so still, that Valjean worried for a few seconds, if he was was even still alive.

It was not such a preposterous notion as Valjean would have hoped. Even in the relatively small town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, beggars perished on the streets, complexion usually mottled with sickness, skeletons pressing out into the walls of their shrinking skin, bodies left to crust out in the cold like the abandoned shells of hermit crabs.

Valjean crept closer to the boy carefully, spotting more and more pitiful details with each step closer: shoeless feet; limp, greasy hair; blood nestled under each fingertip; a fat, brown rat snuffling like a bore at the boy’s legs. 

The boy peeked up under his filthy fringe, and hope brimmed like tears in his eyes at the familiar sight of the generous Mayor. Valjean smiled softly, and ignored the slight cracking of his knees, to crouch down and face the boy. 

“Do you have a name, my poor boy?”  
“… Mathieu…m’sieur maire.”  
“And a family…?”  
“Oui, m’sieur…but, just my Grandpa…but he is very sick, and has to stay in bed.”

Valjean could see the boy’s face clearly now. It wasn’t blotchy with tears or fear like he’d been expecting, but exhaustion had pulled down harshly at his youthful features, and had aged them more quickly than natural time would dictate. Valjean found it difficult to pin down his age. 

Mathieu continued, sensing Valjean’s unasked questions.

“I had a job, cleaning the house of a wealthy lady, but she’s gone away now. There was another lady who said she will hire me, but she doesn’t need me 'til next week.”  
“And so you are driven to beg on the street until then.”  
Mathieu shrugged, as if to say, ‘what else could I do?’

Valjean wanted to ask why the boy hadn’t turned to theft, why he would rather sit passively in the cold and wet. But he refrained, angry at himself: he would not be responsible for putting ungodly ideas into children’s heads. 

“Let me take you back home, young Mathieu, the floor is no place for a day’s work.”

The boy gave a consenting nod, letting himself be raised into the Mayor’s deceptively powerful arms which, once clear that Mathieu was too weak to stand let alone walk, lifted the boy cleanly off the ground, and scooped him in towards his broad, warm chest. Following Mathieu’s directions, gestured assuredly with one spindly finger, Valjean finally stopped in front of a mouseishly small house, packed amongst other equally tiny houses, residing in a small alley which was crammed with loose cobbles, washing lines and leaky buckets of various sizes. 

Once inside (after Valjean nearly smacked his head against the door frame), he nearly tripped over a metal pan which sloshed with water that had dripped from the ceiling, and gave a disgruntled scrape over the floorboards when he nudged it back into place with his foot. Mathieu pointed again, and Valjean saw a wrinkled, decrepit creature huddled up in whatever moth-bitten blankets the house had to spare.

“I think he’s still sleeping” the boy whispered.

Valjean hoped the old man wasn’t dead. 

But as he shuffled forwards, the creaky boards below seemed to rouse the boy’s grandfather, and one crackling, dry eye was popped open. Valjean felt rather than saw the boy’s grin, and gently perched him on the edge of the make-shift blanket bed. 

The man and his grandson didn’t hug. The old man simply rested a carpet-looking hand on the boy’s head, and both seemed content with this minimal contact.

Valjean left them in peace for a few minutes whilst he hurried down to the nearest food stalls, and bought a week’s worth of essentials to stock the family of two’s sparse kitchen. He returned, arms full, and quietly filled their cupboards, while the boy continued smiling, and the old man looked on with a curious, unfocused stare. 

Heart slightly more at ease now that the two would not waste away from starvation, Valjean knelt before Mathieu and pressed more coins into his palms, this time an excess for what a single week required. 

“Look after this well,” he murmured, “and look after yourself and your Grandpa too. When you are well enough, I want you to come to my factory, and say that the Mayor is expecting you in his office, and I’ll find a job for you which will pay better than cleaning houses.”

Mathieu could only nod, overwhelmed.

…

Returning to his factory, Valjean spotted Javert pacing back and forth in tight circles, hovering near the entrance doorway like a hungry pigeon. They caught each other’s eyes.

Valjean remembered to smile, and the Inspector came scooting over.

“Inspector?”  
Javert cleared his throat, but his eyes looked over Valjean’s shoulders, as if distracted.  
“Your headaches, Monsieur, do they persist?”  
“Well, I’m afraid I cannot say they’ve disappeared, but th—”  
“A bout of headaches should not be lasting this long.”  
“…Oh.”  
“Perhaps Monsieur should revisit the doctor, in case you are sick…”

Was this all that Javert had come to speak to him about? The man grew stranger every day…

“Really, they are not so severe, certainly not a fever, I expect it will pass with time.”  
“…May I…check?”

Valjean wasn’t sure what Javert meant by that, until the taller man raised a gloved hand to his mouth, and tugged off the dark leather with his teeth. Valjean’s eyes darted from side to side, furiously checking to see if any other passer-by happened to witness what he had just witnessed. What officer of the law removed their gloves with their mouth? Directly in front of their mayor no less…. 

Perhaps he was acting over-censoriously, he was not royalty, after-all. Or maybe that was just the most efficient method to remove gloves, and Valjean had never noticed. Still, it felt uncomfortably at odds with their public surroundings. Valjean imagined Javert repeating the action inside his office, and yet, that somehow made his insides squirm even more…. 

He had no time to analyse his peculiar reactions, however, before Javert touched his ungloved hand to Valjean’s forehead, and pressed lightly. He could do nothing but stand, unprotesting, until the Inspector was satisfied.

“It appears you are correct, Monsieur le Maire, you are not of a concerning temperature.”  
“Ah.”

Was there something else he should be saying? He felt displaced, as though he’d moved towns again with another new name. 

They both coughed to fill the empty silence.

“…Was that all, Inspector?”

Javert suddenly fumbled with his uniform as if he’d lost his keys, but pulled out a small, glass vial, filled with a pale, chartreuse-coloured liquid. It was held out to him in offering. 

“Rosemary oil. It is supposed to relieve headaches, Monsieur,”  
Valjean was stumped once more.  
“…you don’t have to take it, of course, but—”  
“Oh no! I will of course take it, since you have gone to so much trouble, that is…that is very thoughtful of you, Inspector.”  
“It was no trouble, Monsieur, it did not even cost much…” Javert flushed red, “I mean, not to say that it was cheap…”

But Valjean no longer cared what exactly Javert had bought for him; he was touched. Shocked, confused, and a little amused too, but touched all the same, that this man, renowned for his severity and gruff nature, would think to buy him a gift. It was no silver candlestick, for sure, but then again, the Inspector was no Bishop. 

He felt a craving to reach out and press the Inspector’s naked hand to his face again.

Instead, he reached out to accept the vial.  
“Thank you, Inspector Javert.”

Javert let the glass slip easily into Valjean’s hand, and then, the corners of his mouth inched up by such a tiny fraction, that Valjean almost missed the Inspector’s shy, slight smile.

“Not at all, Monsieur le Maire.”

And that was the catch wasn’t it: the gift was not for Valjean, maybe not even for Madeleine, but for Javert’s esteemed Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

… 

Only when he arrived home, did Valjean really look at what Javert had bought him. ‘Rosemary oil’ read the label. He could not remember a time when he had ever used any sort of oil before, and the delicate glass pinched between his thick fingers made him feel clumsy and oafish. Had Javert selected this particular oil with an expertise stemming from his own experience and preference using oils? Valjean found it hard to believe that Javert was any more accustomed to this kind of luxury than he himself was. Or was it chosen for its suitably as a gift for a Mayor?

There were a few lines of instructions: ‘Recommended applications: add desired number of drops to hot water for scent / bathing to relieve head pain. Or, massage directly unto scalp for hair growth and vitality.’

He hoped Javert hadn’t claimed headaches as his reason for buying the oil, as a cover up for notifying Valjean about hair loss. He brushed a hand through his hair and glanced into the mirror, nope, it was still sufficiently brown and thick, he was simply overthinking this. 

Valjean had never had a hot bath, unable in the past to justify burning such an extortionate quantity of wood. He now very well had proficient riches to spare some wood for hot baths, but it had never tempted him to do so, and he could not see that changing any time soon. Even cold baths were a rarity. Javert’s gift would not go to waste however; he brought up to the basin a small pan full of water, which had been resting over the fire, and tipped several drops of the oil into the steaming water. 

The sweet, woody smell of Rosemary soon drifted up and permeated the air rousingly. He sunk a greying, tattered wash-cloth into the water, feeling that the temperature was not too hot, before wringing it back out and dampening his face softly. He pressed it gingerly over his eyes, feeling the warmth creep past the back of his eyes and sooth the tired throbbing of his headache. Meanwhile, the tendrils of the herb’s scent slinked their way into his senses, blooming into diaphanous flowers and sugary grasses inside until he felt that he was overflowing with harmonious contentment.

It wasn’t long before he intuitively stripped off the rest of his clothes, anticipating what other complaints of his body could be hushed by the now malleable cloth. The smell was not dissimilar to the thicker, more enveloping pine-smells of his younger days working as a tree-pruner. Even just the stirred memories of his youth, of his body before it had known the dragging weight of a chain, seemed to rejuvenate his limbs and soul. 

Instead of a mindless and rushed scrub, as he was used to doing, Valjean took the time to wipe down every inch of his skin, frequently re-soaking the cloth into the water to rinse out the dirt. Valjean felt reluctant to stop washing even once he felt clean all over, and he let the cloth in his hand rest on his stomach whilst he leant backwards against the wall, eyes still closed, unabashed of his nakedness.

His hand moved lower of its own accord, seemingly answering to some unspoken instruction despite Valjean’s thoughts remaining pleasurably blank. He sighed as the hot cloth drifted smoothly down the length of his cock and down to his balls, the very last of his bodily sweat being wiped away.

His hand continued to glide up and down his length, not succeeding in sparking any arousal, but pushing Valjean further into a fuzzy cushion of comfort. 

In some drowsy, lulled part of his mind, he wondered if Javert knew of the intoxicating relief offered by the hot, scented water. It would not surprise him, if the Inspector sought some similar way to relax his body in his own home; the man was religiously tense, firm, but pulled taut, like the polished stirrup leathers that hung from his horse’s saddle.

Valjean wondered if Javert’s shoulders would finally collapse from their stiff hold, and his neck would lengthen to bear more skin, his chin tilted upwards to stretch out the kinks. Would he lean his own back against a wall, relying on something else to hold him steady whilst his body sunk into relaxation, legs shifting further apart than where they were usually planted, knees bending a little to twist and crack at the pelvis? 

The water had cooled off now, and yet, warmth still chanted insistently through his veins. How strange, and rather remarkable, Valjean thought, that his body could generate heat purely on the whim of his desires. 

He frowned. Why must his lust-tinged thoughts always return to the Inspector?

He opened his eyes into little slits, and saw that his hand was still diligently moving up and down. His member had grown to half-mast too, at last responding to the pressure, as if waking up from a snooze of its own. He tried pausing the motion, but sudden need nipped at his nerves and compelled his hand to return to its caressing.

He sighed airily, surrendering himself to his body’s wants. This time he set the cold wash-cloth back into the pan, and let his calloused palm provide a sweeter friction with the length of his cock. 

He reckoned Javert’s hands were smoother than his, the pads of his fingertips had been soft when they had touched his face, his uniform’s tough leather gloves taking the brunt of the damage to preserve the skin underneath. He swiftly dunked his hand into the water before continuing his strokes, humming at the slipperier glide of skin on skin. 

His head knocked back gently against the wall, eyes closing, and at the mercy of his imagination once more. Javert’s eyes would slip shut too, giving himself over to the blistering pleasure of his own touch, and his pink tongue would peek out to wet his lips, swollen and bruised from tiny bite marks.

Little flames of fire licked their way from Valjean's groin out into his inner thighs, making them shake and quiver unsteadily. His knees suddenly buckled under the pleasure and his hand jerked down his cock, causing his fingers to slide a little too enthusiastically over the slit of his cock-head. He gasped in sharp pleasure. 

His breathing began to quickly morph into rapid, staccato pants, and his mouth fell open like an invitation, with no prospect of closing again. Little huffing and whining sounds escaped him feebly, and he felt powerless to resist the burning demands of his groin for harder pressure, quicker speed…

The pace of his hand grew wild and desperate, squeezing, rubbing and stroking heavily in any way that made the hot sparks fly up his back and pelvis. His other hand slapped restlessly against the wall beside him, fingers scrabbling and convulsing as if electrocuted.

He felt his orgasm impending rapidly, inevitable like the smacking contact of the ocean if you hurled yourself over a cliff edge. 

In his mind, Javert flung his head back and moaned erotically, spending with ridiculous force as cum plastered itself all over his whimpering mouth, and stuck his fringe to his lax face.

His own feet crumpled in on themselves, toes slipping and curling against the condensation on the floor, whilst his chest arched outwards as though his heart wanted to wriggle out of his body. His cock jerked vigorously, and Valjean groaned aloud as long ropes of cum came streaming out, splattering over his stomach and the wall. 

He trembled with the aftershocks, shivering and heaving as the pleasure continued to tingle, and jolted helplessly when a delayed bolt of heat raced through his hips, like an eager whippet released from its starting gate. 

If felt rewarding and punitive all in one overwhelming moment. He continued to helplessly torture himself with stunted little strokes, coaxing every last strip of cum from his cock until he sobbed from the intensity of feeling. 

Finally his knees fully gave way, and his back slid down bonelessly against the wall, until he sat in a crumpled pile of limbs on the floor, dazed. 

A minute later, Valjean collected himself from that rare activity of indulgence, and sighed after catching his breath again. So much for cleaning himself up, he thought, surveying his sticky torso and sweaty limbs. He picked up the wash-cloth once more to sluggishly wipe off the new mess, and pushed himself back up onto shaky legs. A loud yawn escaped him. 

…He would think about this in the morning, he decided, when he’d had some sleep…


	7. Burning Midnight Oil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter cause I got impatient and just wanted to post something at midnight :)

His dreams were often violent. Last night, bulbous giant creatures were stomping around M-sur-M, their clumsy footfalls trampling through houses, hospitals and schools, horses and people were flattened in the blink of an eye under wide, inhuman feet. And he was like a flailing goose, flapping about the town trying to chase after faces he recognised, but each time arriving just seconds too late, and all that was left of the person was a bloody smear on the floor.

He didn’t wake with a start, but roused sluggishly, and his chamber seeped unclearly back into view as if reality were the dream. The squashed bodies were fresh in his mind, and for minutes he lay awake in bed, trying to identify which of his town’s people had met such an unfortunate end in his dream. Disturbance took a while to settle in; it was only as he imagined telling his dream to another person, that its grotesque nature became apparent.

Turning to his window, he knew that, by the lack of light streaming through his blinds, it was still in the dead of night. A lone hoot of an owl confirmed this. Years of lying restlessly awake at such hours had taught him that his day now was as good as begun.

He took sleepy steps over to his mirror, and thread the minor tangles out of his beard with his fingers. He made a shy wave at his bedraggled reflexion then snorted at his own ridiculousness, as he knew he would, and nodded with satisfaction when his cheeks flooded with a little more colour and his eyes no longer seem so persecuted. 

A splash of water on his face from yesterday’s pan to wash away the crusted rheum, made him catch a faint whiff of something dainty and green..., and then remembered his gift. The clear vial of Rosemary oil rested innocently in his bedside drawer where he had left it last night, having felt the urge to keep it close after using it so intimately. Evidently, the liquid was no good for warding off perturbing dreams, but his face certainly looked fully flushed now. 

He felt oddly like he should be saying something to his reflection; a confession, perhaps, an excuse, or an apology. Any form of justification for his warped desires. The deep eyes in the mirror were expectant. Didn’t they know he needed time to think?

His mind wandered off through an endlessly long, empty corridor; the walls a sordid grey, the floor damp with grime, and flanked on each side were doors after doors of indistinguishable cells. Was this what a prison guard felt? Such blank rumination? He sees himself naked and kneeling on that rotting floor, like an illustration, hand moving furiously upon his prick to pursue his pleasure, whilst a tall shadow stands in front of him inanimately, simply regarding. 

He felt he should be screaming with rage at the unfairness of it all; he had done more than his fair share of time, he should be done with the Bagne and its guards’ sway over his psyche. Yet, no feeling came. 

This persistent attraction to a man who breaths in the law like oxygen, when he himself would be poisoned by the stuff, what could it mean? Valjean wondered if he had ever truly eradicated it in the first place, it seemed now to have been festering like prison mould inside of him for all these years, waiting for the green card of Valjean’s remembrance.

He sighed into his mirror; earthly logic remained elusive, as always. In the end, he had always fallen back on intuition.

A future that was spent resisting the pull of his gut gleamed bleakly ahead of him like a snuffed candle. It would be to ram himself against the walls of a fish tank, only for the water to come gushing free whilst he would lay defenceless, slapping his tail uselessly on the wet floor.

Valjean scoffed; desire - how could he consider disregarding such a beast of nature? 

The soul had its strange ways. His had been tested before by the brutal realities of the world, and had stormed through like an ox through a blizzard. He was not a man who suffered his conscience away in chains, without attempting escape on four separate occasions. He was not a man who would live by the injustice of his yellow papers, without endeavouring to be the man that the Bishop had faith he could be. 

He was not a man who played obediently by black and white rules. If his soul had desire, then desire would not be his cage; it would be his weapon to wield. 

He did not feel dirty; he would do what he felt he must, and if the Lord esteemed him to be wrong, then there would surely be a sign.


	8. Besides The Mouth Of A Gift Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring two idiots

Valjean caught Javert by the elbow as he was leaving his office. 

“Inspector! Where are my manners? I haven’t yet thanked you for your thoughtful gift.”  
Javert gave a jerky shrug of the shoulders, whilst his mouth wobbled between a frown and a smile.   
“It was to your liking, then, Monsieur?”  
“Very much so! And I must compliment your fine taste; I couldn’t have thought of a better gift myself.”  
It had been very much to his liking indeed, but he wasn’t about to disclose ‘those’ sorts of details to the Inspector.  
“You surely exaggerate, Monsieur le Maire.”  
Really, how long would the man insist on tagging ‘le Marie’ onto the end of his address?   
“Why, do you think I would fib to you, Inspector?”

This made Javert blink a little too rapidly, and he shook his head adamantly, in the way people do when they’re fearful of an unpleasant reaction.   
“No, of course not, Monsieur le Maire—”  
His name came out rushed.  
“—I merely meant to say that a man of your excellent standing would have…far better…taste…than I.”  
Javert voice trailed off like the last drips of rainfall, as Valjean moved his hand a little further up his arm and squeezed his bicep reassuringly. An outsider would have surely called the touch affectionate, had they not known just who these two men were. 

“I meant no insult, Inspector”  
“Nor I, Monsieur.”

Crisis averted, it seemed, and yet, he still hadn’t asked his burning question:

“May I ask where you bought the oil from? I am not sure I recognise the seller.”  
“It is a rather small and unofficial collection, Monsieur, and the shop itself is quite well concealed. Do you know where ‘La Librairie Roseraie’ is?  
“Yes, I know the one; I bought a quaint little book of 13th century verses from there just a week ago.”  
“Well, on the very lowest floor of that shop, if you go to the room furthest on the left, there is a cabinet full of ointments such as the one I bought for yourself. They are under lock and key of course, to prevent against theft, but the owner will gladly open the cabinet for the appraisal of an interested buyer.”

Valjean wondered what Javert was doing in La Librairie Roseraie in the first place; it held a rather niche selection of books, ones appealing to specialist interests, but he decided not to press the reserved Inspector.

“Were you not tempted to buy yourself one of the vials, Inspector?”  
“No, Monsieur.”  
Valjean made a questioning face.  
“I am in no need of luxury.”  
“Ah, but who is there that ‘needs’ such things, is that not why we call it luxury?”  
Javert nodded once, reluctant to agree verbally.

Valjean, of course, was not a man of luxuries himself, but it sat uncomfortably with him that a man working under his authority, would buy him a gift that he would never consider buying for himself.

Javert cleared his throat then, and directed his gaze meaningfully at where Valjean’s hand still rested upon his arm. Valjean grinned sheepishly and removed his offending limb. 

“I will let you go then, Inspector.”  
“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.”

‘Monsieur le Maire’…Infuriating. 

…

Valjean hop-footed to La Librairie Roseraie the very next morning; the store was just as musty and cosy as he remembered. The stairs leading downwards were steep and spiralling, with a very low ceiling to boot, but Valjean clambered down the steps with brimming eagerness. The smell of paper, dust and ineffective cleaning polish was twice as potent when Valjean reached the lowest basement level, three flights down from the ground.

He had barely finished descending when he was met with a blank, wooden wall in front of him, and an immediate choice to go left or right. He followed Javert’s instructions and turned to the left, and found himself in a enclosed in a claustrophobically tiny room with all four walls full of shelves stacking books right up to the ceiling, or, essentially, up to Valjean’s head height. He amused himself for a few seconds thinking about the tall Inspector stooping around the room like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, to try and take his mind off the confining closeness of the walls.

He slotted through another door, one of two, which led to another room with another set of two doors leading to another two rooms, and who knows if those two rooms had another set of two doors…. He mumbled something to himself about old buildings being rabbit warrens, but continued to dive in and out of misshapen doorways. 

He was fully aware that he had abandoned Javert’s very simple instructions by now, but he had been distracted by the all the different odd and eccentric books piled up around him. In one instance he saw ‘The Consumption of Algae in Aztec Cuisine’, and in another corner ‘The Carving Techniques of Pacific Morse in European Russia’, as then ‘A History of Vitalis of Milan, as depicted through Mural, Painting and Illustration.’ It was no easy task resisting their queer charms, even if he had zero need to require such knowledge: a luxury, as Javert might have reminded him.

There was an embarrassing series of wrong turns made before Valjean found the locked, glass cabinet with the vials. The cabinet was in the smallest room yet, next to stacks of books dedicated to Sky Navigation and Astronomy. All of the slim bottles were filled with various translucent liquids of varying earthly or acidic-looking shades, and he scanned his gaze over all the listed names. At first he thought ‘lemon’ might suit the Inspector, until he read on the label its use for ‘clearing skin' and 'erasing foul odour.’ 

It would doubtless be best to select a scent which could not be interpreted as a pointed remark.

Finally, he decides on ‘lavender’ oil, supposedly good for improving a night’s sleep, and hopes that the Inspector will regard it as a neutral selection. 

…

He finds Javert in the stables. Or rather, he finds out that Javert is in the stables from his colleagues, remains at the entrance putting several metre’s distance between himself and the horses, and waits for the Inspector to surface.

“Ah, Monsieur Madeleine, I’m sorry if you have been kept waiting! I wasn’t aware you would be visiting here today, is there anything I can assist you with?”

A young, sprightly tempered and slim-waisted officer, keen to offer service but too cheery to seem gravely apologetic, spotted Valjean lurking curiously at the gates to the Police’s stables. 

“Oh no, it is no trouble officer; I have arrived quite unannounced, although, I was wondering if you knew of the whereabouts of Inspector Javert? It is not an urgent matter if he is occupied at present.”

It was very obviously a polite code for ‘please retrieve Inspector Javert’, but the young policeman didn’t quite catch on, and instead stretched an arm out to point out a stable door to the left of the hay stores. 

“He is just in that stable over there with Gymont, Monsieur!”

Valjean simply looked and nodded, smiling, but not moving a foot. The officer stood smiling too, waiting, arm still outstretched. This was far too awkward, thought Valjean, he would have to take pity on the young man, who’s face was clouding with some befuddlement, and admit that he was scared of horses.

“I am allergic to horses.”

Close enough. 

“Oh! My apologies, Monsieur, I will go and alert the Inspector to your presence.”

The officer scuttled off, peered over the top of Gymont’s stable door whilst balanced on his boot tips, before hopping back down and scampering off as the door swung open. Inspector Javert strode out, scowling at the back of the retreating officer, before spying the Mayor by the gate. He walked over promptly whilst Valjean took a moment to marvel at the smear of mud on Javert’s usually spotless boots. 

He smiled broadly, “Inspector!”  
Javert looked like he wanted to be puzzled but held the emotion at bay,  
“Is there something wrong, Monsieur?”  
“Nothing at all, I’m not disturbing you too awfully am I?”  
“Never, Monsieur.”  
“Excellent! I have something for you.”  
“A case?”

Valjean laughed good-naturedly, ‘No, it’s not work-related, guess again.”  
This time Javert did allow the confusion onto his face.  
“…You need a personal favour?”  
Valjean’s braincells had a brief misfiring as he imagined just what kind of ‘personal favour’ Javert could provide, but he managed to only laugh again and shake his head. He could see Javert fiddling with some tool in his hand, before they froze in place as Valjean pulled out a familiar glass vial from his pocket, and presented it gaily.

“But Monsieur le M—”  
“I found the cabinet just where you said it would be, although I must say it does get a bit tight for space on the lower floors…”  
“—But Monsieur, I did not buy yours with the intention that the gesture should be reciproca--”  
“Nonsense, I know you had no ulterior motive, I merely wanted to return the favour, you will accept it, won’t you?”

He had no idea how young, flirtatious women did those big imploring doe-eyes, and he was sure he looked like an utter imbecile, but, he tried his best anyway. 

“Yes, Monsieur, of course.”  
Javert’s mouth seemed to articulate the courteous response before he could process the Mayor’s request. But, to Valjean’s delight, the Inspector’s cheeks turned an uncommonly rosy shade as he looked down at the glass in his hand, and mumbled an embarrassed ‘thank you, Monsieur le Maire.’

Valjean could forgive the formality; he stared his fill until Javert managed to fight back down the intrusive colour. 

“I hope Lavender suits you well?”  
“Very.” There was a stagnant pause before Javert felt the need to expand on his gratitude,  
“Sleep has never come easily to me, actually, Monsieur, so your finely chosen gift is much appreciated.”  
The Inspector bowed respectfully, if a little too long; Valjean suspected he was keen to avoid the eye contact.

“Ah wonderful, I thought a sleep aid would be the best choice for you have clear skin and always smell perfectly fresh, so the other options would have made for a pointless gift.”

This, of course, was a lie: Javert currently stank of horse, and he felt a tad guilty for the Inspector’s subsequent frown, as he tried to figure out if the Mayor had just mocked or complimented him. He did truly have nice skin though. He considered the vial in Javert’s palm and treacherously feels like he’s handed over a dirty secret, or an invitation. He hopes airily that the oil might inspire similar urges in the Inspector…

Unthinkingly, he blurts out asking if Javert would want to use the oil for anything other than sleep, before snapping his mouth shut self-reproachfully. The Inspector peers at the label carefully, and blinks. 

“…Can I eat it?”

…

It felt like an eternity had passed before Javert’s next report was due, and instead of busying himself with work, Valjean twiddled his thumbs distractedly, sifted pointlessly through paperwork, and pushed a spare rosary chain around his table like a spoilt child pushing food around their plate.

When Javert finally entered, the Inspector stared unsurely, with a little dreading, at the chair pulled out invitingly opposite Madeleine: the chair which is usually nestled firmly against the desk, and the one which the Mayor now nods towards expectantly. 

Valjean could see the gears turning in Javert’s head: to sit down would be to break their carefully established routine, and acknowledge the slight progress of amiability in their working relationship. And yet, refusing the chair which had been offered without a questioning of Javert’s preference, would surely be to disregard the Mayor’s authority.

Valjean smiled secretly with the knowledge that Javert employed the same intense deliberation over trivial matters, as he did to the most serious of investigations. He took pity on the man (or not, as Javert seemed about to give his excuse to remain standing); he rushed over to plant one warm hand on Javert’s lower back, the other atop his shoulder, and shepherded him into the waiting chair. 

Javert sat straight and rigidly in the chair, but did not shift in discomfort. He retained such perfect posture, Valjean observed somewhat admiringly, that he gave the illusion of still standing to attention. Valjean remained behind the chair for half a second too long, brushing imaginary dust from Javert’s shoulders. 

As he sat back down he leant backwards lazily, draping himself purposefully into the chair, clashing with the Inspector’s stiffness, and moved his hands to slowly untie his cream cravat. Javert did not hesitate to give him a pointedly judgmental look and a raised eyebrow this time, silently voicing his disapproval for whatever game the unconventional Mayor was playing.

“This one’s a little itchy on the skin” he explained. He almost wondered when he’d become such a spinner of white lies, until he reminded himself of how he’d come to wear the perfectly silky cravat in the first place. Javert nodded politely; unimpressed; harmlessly suspicious.

Valjean tugged at his shirt collar candidly, and ended his impromptu performance by raising his glass of water to his lips and swallowing thickly, knowing his Adam’s apple showed, but not knowing if that sight was at all appealing to his companion or not. In hindsight, maybe it was a tad overkill; he was starting to think that he'd only succeeded in looking like a sweating and bulbous lord, rich purely by old money, and overstuffed from too many excessively lavish meals. 

When he lifted his eyes to meet Javert’s however, he found the Inspector’s eyes not to be filled with revulsion, but gratifyingly congested with darkly sparkling intrigue, hurriedly drowned amongst a jumble of overflowing shyness and feigned disinterest. 

Well, thought Valjean, sleep might not come easily for either of them tonight.


End file.
